The Power of Classic Rock

I went to a music festival this past weekend. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have gone out of my way to see any of the bands on the bill (even though I liked some of the music they made in the past). The headliners included Foghat, The Marshall Tucker Band (a band I was seeing, strangely enough, almost exactly 30 years after the last time I saw them when they opened for the Grateful Dead at Englishtown Raceway, the first concert I ever went to), Little Feat, and Paul Rodgers (of Free/Bad Company fame). But because it was at a minor league baseball field near my parents' house (I was down for the weekend) and it was a beautiful day and my friend's wife had gotten the tickets for free(!), it was hard to pass up. It was a good time. My other friend's cousin was there with a retinue of old hippies and they were serving up a feast in the parking lot. In fact, we were enjoying ourselves so much in the parking lot, we didn't even bother going in to see Foghat and The Marshall Tucker Band (since the bands were actually playing outside the stadium, we could hear them pretty good from our tailgating spot). When I went in for Little Feat's set, I bought a $7 beer and began moving toward the center of the field before I was intercepted by an out-of-control drunken hippie chick letting her freak flag fly via a series of uncoordinated body spasms with absolutely no concern for anyone in her vicinity. My beer became a victim of her negligence (I also received a substantial dousing for her efforts). I immediately thanked her for her lapse of judgment and moved on, but I was still steaming. Occasionally, I would look back in anger and mouth a couple obvious obscenities (I kept it simple considering her drunken state). After a while, I decided I'd try again to buy a beer. As I was making my way past the offending party, a male cohort decided to intervene. "My friend says you keep looking back at her, you're creeping her out." "Tell your friend," I said, "she owes me a motherfucking beer!" (or something to that effect; that was just my lead-in, there was a fair amount of embellishment after that). While I was having this exchange, I noticed my friend's head hovering over the guy's shoulder. He thought I knew the guy, but when he picked up on the nature of the conversation, he gave me a nod as if to say, "Well done, my man." Actually, afterwards, he admitted that he had never seen that side of me. I think he was a bit startled. When the guy said he was going to "call someone," I told him that was a good idea and moved on to the beer truck. The rest of Little Feat's set was without incident (unless you count the 30 minute version of "Dixie Chicken"). Paul Rodgers was next and as he kicked off "Can't Get Enough" the entire audience was transported to Classic Rock Heaven. Seriously, the guy still sounds great and, for a guy his age, he held his own strutting around in his leather trousers (actually, he may be the only guy I've ever seen in leather pants who didn't come off as a complete idiot). As his set progressed, I became a little obsessed with a family standing in front of me. The parents were probably a little older than I am and they had three daughters ranging in age from, I'd say, 15-20. You would think the kids might be a little bored by the old fogey rock, but that wasn't the case at all. The kids were bouncing around in Classic Rock Heaven just like the rest of us! Who knew the power of classic rock was so strong?